


Naturally Yours

by chellethewriter



Series: Even Ice Gods Can Melt [4]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Fluff, Injury, M/M, Pining!Yuuri, Post canon, Post-Episode 12, Relationship Study, Yuuri POV, blood mention, but no serious injuries, domestic viktuuri, flashbacks and present day, sort-of sequel but no prior reading is required, super affectionate Viktor, this is flangst and pure fluff at times, yuuri essentially can't believe that he and viktor are together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-14 02:27:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9153595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chellethewriter/pseuds/chellethewriter
Summary: Yuuri has never considered himself a “natural” at any particular activity. Almost nothing comes easily to him. Learning to land a jump, dropping unwanted weight, stifling his own overwhelming, crushing anxiety-- all of those things have cost him years and years of tedious practice and rehearsal… have battered him with rigid mountains of frustration and failure.Viktor’s smiles are fluid, passionate, overpowering -- worth more than money, worth more than anything that Yuuri could possibly offer. They’re worth all the stars in the sky and everything beyond.But he gives them to Yuuri freely, easily, every day. Viktor’s love is the steadfast “almost” standing between Yuuri and a formidable “nothing.”(In other words, Yuuri attempts to understand how and why his idol came to reciprocate his feelings.)





	

People are always encouraged to “dream big.”

But like everything else in the world -- like the plain clothes on Yuuri’s back, like the food he purchases from the supermarket -- dreams have a _cost_.

It’s an implicit understanding, always, because no one _likes_ to stomp on dreams. Dreams are unknown variables, difficult to predict or fully understand. They have no measurable success rates. After all, men have flown planes and floated in orbit, so really, who can foresee what _stays_ impossible?

But the truth is there, nonetheless, imposing and demanding acknowledgment, even if it is never explicitly said. Yuuri will say it, though. Yuuri is all too familiar with that truth. It was his companion for many years, curled around his neck like a lithe, powerful snake -- _choking, choking_ …

Here it is. The truth.

The bigger the dream, the bigger the potential crash, and the bigger the disappointment down the road.

Yuuri reunited with that truth with every attempted jump on the ice. The quads, for example, were _always_ like that. It was a thrill of excitement hammering in his chest, and then a takeoff. Spinning, _spinning_ , but slipping too. It was a wrong foot touching down, clumsy and chaotic. It was a body smacking into the ice, a bruise large enough to suggest a car accident rather than a fall, and then _shame_ . A _burning_ shame and a disappointment, a throat filled with ash and a fiery resentment in his belly.

Yuuri can boast years and years of bruises and scars as a result of his dreams, carved into his body by ice skating practices. A somewhat-faded gash along his elbow from a particularly nasty botched Salchow, a scratch down his ankle after an accident with a rinkmate. They’re all there, neighbors to his stretch marks, taunting him with their ugliness.

But Viktor doesn’t mind. Sometimes, late at night, Viktor smiles softly and traces them with his fingers. His touches are always light and exploratory, like he’s examining the tactile imperfections on sea glass. Even now, years later, he treats Yuuri like a newfound discovery, fascinating in all its faults and mannerisms.

Viktor has scars too, of course, like all skaters do. This is a beautiful sport, but painful. Ever so painful and difficult. But because he’s Viktor, they’re not ugly on him. Nothing on Viktor is ever _ugly_.

* * *

Yuuri once had posters of Viktor on his wall. He had memorized his appearance long before he had ever met him, familiarized himself with argent hair and azure eyes.

There was a time when skating was mostly meaningless to Yuuri. It was always something that Yuuko liked best, and he indulged in it for her sake -- to impress her. In fact… it’s almost absurd… how casual his interest was at first, considering where he is now.

But back then, Yuuri wanted to be a dancer, first and foremost. A dancer like Minako, the most beautiful person who he, at the time, had ever met.

Yuuri wanted to be beautiful because he wasn’t. The children at school called him fat, teased him so insistently that eventually, it was impossible to deny their words. And it’s almost funny… how tiny words can _burrow_ into your skin like that, like shards of crystal digging deeper and deeper still, until they become inextricable. Words like that are painful upon entry, and even more painful to detach from yourself.

But ballerinas were beautiful, and Minako was beautiful. So, as a child, he thought that being a dancer was the same as being beautiful -- an easy fix to his dissatisfaction.

But there are no such things as “easy fixes” for Yuuri. By virtue of his genetics, his weight was a persistent foe. So he spent hours upon hours in Minako’s studio, burning away the fat that tormented him through the voices of his classmates. And God knows...he was _no_ prodigy. But Minako was patient and determined, a talented dancer and an even more talented mentor. She knew what it was like to _work_ for her accomplishments, even when her barre-mates had overflowed with natural ability. She transferred her talent and willpower to him through her teachings, and for that, he will always be grateful.

Dancing was a struggle and a journey. An artistry only formed through rehearsal. A delicacy gained only through immense strength. Given his mediocre grades in school, he thought dance was his only future, the only skill he could possibly master -- thanks to Minako.

Skating only began to matter in the locker room of Ice Castle Hasetsu, crowded with Yuuko around a boxy, decrepit television. The kind that distorted its colors and produced an audible hum whenever powered. But on its screen was Viktor, ever so youthful, sliding across the ice like something otherworldly -- something formed out of liquid marble and silver and a single pair of twin sapphires. In Viktor was a type of beauty that Yuuri had never seen before. An angelic, faultless grace that surpassed that of any dancer. A dancer merely steps… but Viktor? He _floats._ He _glides_.

In that moment, something stirred within him -- something unidentifiable to someone as young as he was. All he knew was that Viktor’s routine, the masterpiece that it was, seemed to follow Yuuri wherever he traveled.

Yuuri _wanted_ . What he wanted, he wasn’t certain. But he wanted _something_ associated with Viktor. Eventually… he just assumed that it was the skating. The skating, of course.

Dancing became unsatisfactory. One day, he told Minako that he aspired to figure skate. No, wait... even more ridiculously, he told her that he aspired to figure skate _beside Viktor Nikiforov_.

At the time, she barely even knew to whom he was referring. Only true skating fans like Yuuko recognized that name, at least until Viktor won a few more titles. But Minako encouraged him nonetheless, urging him to _try_. So he did.

And that was his dream. To skate beside Viktor Nikiforov, his idol.

He tried to be like Viktor. Even bought a dog like Makkachin, named it after that poodle’s owner. With Yuuko, he imitated Viktor’s routines and moves, though with far less skill. And with every time he skated, the name “Viktor” was on his mind… either as he imagined Viktor’s programs, or as he asked himself if _this_ is how Viktor would perform a certain move.

It cost a lot. It cost more than he could have ever imagined. It cost him hours of training, agonizing in its intensity. It cost him the ability to eat what he wanted, for fear of gaining weight. It cost wanton amounts of money, whether for skates or for lessons or for medical bills. It cost him friends, it cost him his home in Hasetsu when he moved to Detroit. Worst of all, at times, it even cost him his mental health.

One day it will cost him muscles in his legs. He knows that. That’s the future Viktor fears, anyway, and it’s legitimate. Some costs are immediate… others are awaiting him down the line, when he’s older.   

The posters were always a reminder, though, feeding that indescribable _want_. He pushed himself hard for it, for his dream -- his tenacious stamina allowing him to blossom slowly, but visibly and truly.

He remembers watching Yuri Plisetsky, how easily skating came to him, even at a young age. The quad jumps he effortlessly performed long before his senior debut. _What must that be like_? Yuuri wondered. He could only wonder, only imagine.

Yuuri was never like that. Yuuri tried and failed, constantly. He failed for hours, for days, for months, for _years_. He failed monumentally, failed only slightly, failed in every possible shade and color and music note. His muscles are the corpses of a hundred thousand failures, stacked upon themselves like building blocks, held together by dried tears and sticky droplets of blood. Ugly, but sturdy and reliable. That is his stamina. A stamina not given naturally, but earned...

He dreamed of skating beside his idol...

His _idol_ …

There’s still something almost fantastical about the way that Viktor peels himself off of Yuuri’s body, flopping backward onto the bed, a final cry of pleasure having just left his throat. This is _their_ bed. The bed that they _share_ , here, in St. Petersburg.

Sweat glistens on Viktor’s skin… little diamonds to complement the silver in his hair. His chest rises and falls like an ocean, breaths ragged and exhausted. Yuuri just watches him, awed. Always awed. _How can a person be this beautiful?_

“There’s that stamina again,” Viktor pants, eyes wide. A ghost of a chuckle in his voice. “You’re amazing, Yuuri.”

Viktor’s compliments stun him like electric currents. They always do, even now, even after so long.

Despite his exhaustion, Viktor grows restless for contact. He shifts, rests his face against Yuuri’s neck, breath warm as it gusts over Yuuri’s skin.

It’s bizarre. The tickle of those sterling hairs beneath his chin, the rhythmic inhales and exhales of the man lying beside him. “I love you,” is what Viktor mumbles, like it’s the most obvious thing in the whole damn world. But Yuuri still has trouble believing it.

He doesn’t admit that, though. Viktor would be hurt if he did.

He just returns the words and means them, the engagement band itching on his finger.

* * *

He never asked himself why. Why? Why was Viktor so important to him, why had Viktor become his qualifier for the beauty of all things? _Are you in love with Viktor, maybe?_ That was what Phichit jokingly asked him one day, upon seeing the posters in his college dorm. But no, no, certainly not Yuuri. Not with Viktor.

A lie.

Because he was. He _was_.

The problem was the truth.

He dreamed of skating beside Viktor. And, as big as that dream was, it was attainable. It was a dream that demanded everything of himself but nothing of Viktor. And _God_ , Yuuri was willing to work. He was willing to count the cost, risk the crash, brace himself for the disappointment. Yuuri could control what he wanted, what he could achieve, if only he worked hard enough.

But there were other aspirations, ones that he had never fully admitted to himself -- not until much later in his life. He was _in_ _love_ with Viktor Nikiforov, a man he had never met… had been in love with him for years. A man. He was in love with a man, and he _wanted_ that man to love him back.

And that… that was a dream _far_ too big. Far too costly. A dream that scared him.

Yuuri could demand things of himself, but not of Viktor. Viktor was _beautiful_ , quite possibly the most beautiful person to ever stand on the ice. And… and Viktor probably didn’t even _swing_ that way, the way that Yuuri wanted him to, and even if he did, what could he _possibly_ see in Yuuri? Yuuri, whose entire body was forged through torn muscles and sweat and furious disappointment in his own limitations. There was no _grace_ in that. Grace is _effortless_ , as Viktor demonstrates every day.

Yuuri is no pinnacle of male beauty. He is plain. People have _literally_ said that to him -- _to his face_ . That he’s plain. So it must be true. And his personality? Yuuri doesn’t even _know_ himself under all of his own anxiety. Ask him to name one of his own positive traits, and he’ll spend days searching for an answer.

He was certain that Viktor would reject him, even if he _did_ meet him someday. And that was one failure that Yuuri knew he would not survive. A disappointment too crushing.

Five years of college, and he had never engaged in a relationship. Never had sex. Phichit told him that he kissed a few people at parties, but Yuuri had been too blackout drunk to remember. What could he possibly have offered _anyone?_

The idea was absurd. No one in the whole world could have convinced Yuuri that he was worthy of Viktor’s love.

Except for Viktor, that is. Because, eventually, Viktor _did_.

“Just a quick peek!” Viktor assures him with a childlike intensity, hand dipping into the paper shopping bag where Yuuri’s white tuxedo is tucked away, neatly folded and ready to be worn. They have just completed their separate fittings. The wedding grows ever closer, a few weeks away, but that fact still hasn’t fully registered for Yuuri. He still can’t believe this. He’s actually _marrying_ Viktor.

“No, Vitenka,” he chides, pulling the bag out of his fiance’s ( _fiance_? How can that be _real?)_ reach, redistributing it in the hand farthest from Viktor as they walk back to the apartment. “You said it yourself -- it’s bad luck. Have some patience.”

Viktor lets out a frustrated whine and crosses his arms, the sound reminding Yuuri far too much of Makkachin, and he laughs. Viktor’s exuberance is still charming, will always be charming, even if it occasionally grates on his nerves. It’s odd. He’s older than Yuuri, but acts so much younger. So bright with enthusiasm, always.

Without the temptation of the shopping bag, Viktor instead grasps Yuuri’s hand, fingers slipping between one another like keys and locks. He leans his head on Yuuri’s shoulder and sighs. “I bet it’s beautiful. I bet _you_ look beautiful in it. But then again… you look beautiful in anything. Or in nothing at all.”

Yuuri clicks his tongue. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Viktor. You’re _still_ not seeing the contents of this bag.”

“ _Please_ , Yuuri? I’ll show you mine!” He shakes his own shopping bag temptingly, the heart-shaped smile added for extra persuasion power.

“ _No_ ,” he rebuffs emphatically. “Besides, I already know what you look like in a black tux.”

Viktor sniffs indignantly. “ _Rude_ . You could at least _pretend_ to be excited.”

Yuuri rolls his eyes. “I know. I’m the worst, clearly.”

“The absolute worst,” Viktor agrees with a nod, teasing him. “You’re so _mean._ You know, you’re lucky that I love you anyway.”

_Yes_ , Yuuri thinks _,_ now accustomed to carrying cold disbelief in the pit of his stomach. _I know_.

* * *

 

_“He gets nervous easily.”_

Never has Yuuri encountered a more inadequate phrase in his life.

Nervousness is the jitters that a person experiences before giving a speech to a crowd. Nervousness is the light apprehension that a skater might feel preceding a performance. Nervousness is natural, understandable, _expected_. People who don’t get nervous are regarded as cocky, even. Viewed negatively.

What Yuuri experiences is far, far worse. It’s large, inescapable. A pillow smothering him. A snake, wrapped around his neck, choking--

It bubbles under his skin with everything he says, a constant, pressing worry that he’ll offend someone, or mention something _stupid,_ or assume too much. Even when he doesn’t really _care_ what people think of him… he worries. For some reason, he worries.

It’s there when he orders food at a restaurant, when he checks the cash he leaves behind a hundred times, just to ensure that it’s the correct amount. Because what if he does something wrong and gets _arrested_ for stealing? What then?

He feels it when he looks in the mirror, when he illogically sees _nothing_ but his own body fat -- the kind that, for a while, he even tried _pole dancing_ to eliminate, just because one of his classmates claimed it was a good workout. And you better _bet_ that he felt it when he _was_ pole dancing like that, in the eyes of everyone in the class that was watching him.

It’s sitting, reading a book, and _Oh._ Suddenly, he’s checking his wallet, wondering if he lost his credit card, just because…who knows?

Every time he attempts a jump, he envisions himself falling and making a fool of himself. Visualizes it so clearly, it’s hard to believe it’s not real. And yes, of course he _knows_ he can land the jumps, land them cleanly and gracefully. But his brain just _loves_ to remind him of other possibilities...

It’s worrying that he’s _bothering_ people with his presence. It’s worrying that he’s uninteresting, or worthless. How many times has he considered himself a burden on others? There’s too many to count.

And it never, _ever_ goes away. Not entirely. Not even with Viktor, despite how much he _knows_ Viktor loves him. In fact...sometimes _Viktor_ is the cause. It’s irrationally worrying that he’s letting Viktor down, that Viktor will _leave_ him, that he’s not _worth_ Viktor’s time...

The feeling itself is so difficult to describe or explain because it’s so _different_ in each instance, in each appearance. Sometimes his legs feel like jelly. Sometimes he feels like he has clay hardening in his lungs, cracking and rigid and dusty, impairing his ability to breathe. Sometimes he can’t see straight, with blurry edges and two of everything. Sometimes it seems like everything is _shaking_ , and he’s not sure if it’s _him_ or the world around him.

And sometimes it’s barely detectable at all… a faint shiver, a tiny prick of doubt in the back of his mind, like a needlepoint.

And he knows that it shouldn’t be, but it’s _there_ , and it’s not going away. Not now, not ever.

The worst part is when people mention it the wrong way. Dismissively. Patronizingly. Clucking sympathetically with their false pity. The commentators are always the worst, he finds, talking about his anxiety like it’s just something _silly_ \-- a child’s concern that can be easily disproven and removed if he just _believes_ , like monsters under the bed or hidden in the closet. In their words, it sounds so, so trivial. But it’s _not_.

He knows it’s _stupid_ . He knows! But he’s not one of those people who can just _tell_ his own body what to feel and expect it to listen. (Do those people even exist? Is that even a _thing_?).

There have been times when Yuuri has admitted to experiencing anxiousness, and people have _actually_ said to him (to his face, mind you), “Why don’t you just calm down?”

Gosh, he never, _ever_ thought of that!

Minako was one of the people who understood him best. Whenever his anxiety struck, she encouraged him to practice, to flood himself with the cause of his anxiousness until he was accustomed to working through it, at least. And she was always there with him during those times, assuring him that it was _okay_ to be anxious, that he could succeed _despite_ the anxiety being there, always.

And that actually helped.

But his confidence has always been battered by his anxiety, subdued and quashed to levels much too low for someone who wanted to win the Grand Prix Finals, which is highly competitive. But he’s _working_ at it, always. Trying to raise it, bit by bit.

Sometimes Yuuri’s anxiety before a performance is light. Sometimes it’s heavy and _crushing_.

Yuuri buries his face into the shoulder of Viktor’s suit. He inhales, exhales, trying to match Viktor’s even breathing pattern, which is much calmer than his own. Viktor smells like cologne, he notices -- cologne perhaps a bit too strongly applied, even, but he doesn’t mind. The scent is distracting and welcome, and he nearly smiles, thinking about the way their bathroom at home always _reeks_ so heavily of the stuff…

Viktor’s fingers are winding their way through Yuuri’s hair, careful and tender. “I’m so proud of you,” he says, and he sounds like he means it. And though the words don’t necessarily ease how Yuuri is feeling, they _do_ make him feel good -- just in a different way.

Viktor has improved at handling these situations over time. At first, he didn’t quite understand, thinking that a lack of motivation was Yuuri’s problem. That ultimatums and criticism could inspire him to be better, which was _far_ from the case. But Yuuri never blamed Viktor for that, how could he? Viktor is the most confident person he has ever encountered, and surely, this is not a problem to which he can relate. His personality flows from an entirely different source than Yuuri’s, exists on an alternate plane of reality…

After all… Viktor always carefully controls his emotions, remaining calm and collected in almost _all_ situations, no matter how frustrating or upsetting or _scary_. In fact, Yuuri is probably one of the only people to have ever seen him cry -- and only in very rare, very emotionally charged situations.

Yuuri, on the other hand, cries _a lot._ He’s _aware_ that there’s nothing wrong with that… but he experiences embarrassment nonetheless. (Go ahead... Take a guess why… the reason starts with an ‘a.’)

But now Viktor knows that, above all, it’s _support_ that Yuuri wants, and understands that, even then, support is not always enough. He knows to trust Yuuri to handle his own issues and mistakes and emotions -- on his _own_ terms, rather than under the threat of punishment or humiliation.

“Do you need anything?” Viktor asks him, the twinge of worry in his voice nearly masked for Yuuri’s sake, but still barely detectable. His other hand strokes Yuuri’s back, borrowing the rhythm of their breathing.

“No,” Yuuri replies. “Just stay here, okay? For now?”

“Of course. Take as long as you need.”

A kiss brushes past his temple, soft and patient. Yuuri just breathes, and keeps breathing.

He can do this. No matter what his brain says.

* * *

Yuuri won’t pretend that Viktor was an _easy_ coach. He wasn’t.

Viktor thought that _everyone_ ’s confidence was like his own. Simply there, unwavering. Strong and powerful, an unstoppable force. It takes an especially absurd amount of confidence, Yuuri thinks, to assume something like that. That everyone has the ability, deep down, to be as self-assured as Viktor was. What kind of odd, world-distorting bubble did Viktor live in, to believe that? For a while...Yuuri couldn’t even _imagine_.

As a coach, Viktor treated ice skating the same way, always assuming that Yuuri could perform all the moves that Viktor could. Sometimes he would _forget_ that he was the most talented ice skater of all time, and that Yuuri was not. He would _forget_ that Viktor’s concept of impossibility was remarkably different from Yuuri’s concept of impossibility. _Just land all your jumps!_ he would say _. Just score perfectly on the performance component!_

Right. Because when you’re Viktor Nikiforov, those are easy tasks to accomplish.

But Yuuri is _not_ Viktor Nikiforov.

The “Eros” routine was one of the most technically difficult short programs to ever hit the ice, and Viktor treated it like level one ballet. _Come on, Yuuri! It’s just a jump! Why don’t we put the combinations in the second half? No problem, right?_

But it was a problem. It was _difficult_ , astoundingly difficult. And sometimes… God, sometimes Viktor wouldn’t even make _sense_ . He would try to explain some flaw in Yuuri’s performance -- nitpicking, always nitpicking, like searching for flecks of dust on a white floor -- but then he wouldn’t be able to even _articulate_ what he meant.

“You just -- the jump’s just gotta have more--” he would start, gesturing wildly with his hands, and then Viktor would make an odd sound with his mouth -- some cross between a groan and a cheer.

And that would be it. That would be the end of the sentence. Like Yuuri was just supposed to _understand_ what that meant, the utter _nonsense_ that it was.

Pleasing Viktor Nikiforov, the coach, was an arduous task.

But pleasing Viktor Nikiforov, the person? In that respect, it seemed like Yuuri hardly even had to try at all.

Off the ice, sitting in the onsen, it seemed like Viktor’s attention was _always_ fixated on Yuuri. In an intense way that, at first, he simply couldn’t believe. He would reach for Yuuri, desperate for closeness, for the comfort of Yuuri’s company. He listened so intently to Yuuri, and would treat every word out of Yuuri’s mouth like some divine, universal truth -- a piece of unique wisdom, uttered for Viktor’s ears only.

He wanted to know _everything_ about Yuuri. Every little fact and tidbit. Favorite food? Favorite color? Favorite movie? Girlfriends? Boyfriends? Best childhood memory?

And his answers always produced a wide variety of excited exclamations:

_Wow!_

_Really? Can I try?_

_I want to meet them!_

_I want to go there!_

_I love it!_

Sometimes, all Yuuri had to do was grant Viktor a smile, and he would simply _beam_. Like the sun had struck him after a year of rain.

He didn’t understand. Maybe he still doesn’t, after all this time.

But the _touches…_ the touches _especially_ . They drove him crazier than any other aspect of Viktor’s behavior. Viktor would take literally _any_ opportunity to pull Yuuri into a tight embrace, or lean over him, lips dangerously close to his. It was _maddening_ . What did it even _mean_?

Even then, Yuuri still hadn’t fully admitted to himself that he was _in love_ with his idol. He preferred his safe bubble of denial, and his safe little “big” dream. But with Viktor teasing him like that -- constantly… he started to realize…

_That_ was the tipping point. Standing in the center of the ice with Viktor’s fingers caressing his lower lip, his stomach dropping inexplicably--

_I want to kiss him_.

But somehow realizing it _worsened_ matters _._ Because Yuuri knew -- he absolutely _knew_ \-- that he had nothing to offer Viktor. There was no logic behind Viktor’s actions, no explicable attraction to be found. There was _no way_ that Viktor reciprocated, simply no way at all. That type of assumption could be catastrophic for them both.

For a while, he just assumed that it had something to do with Viktor’s cultural upbringing -- that people from Russia were excessively tactile. But when Yurio came to Japan, Viktor hardly ever touched _him_ , and Yurio demonstrated no sign of such a cultural difference. Further, Viktor never laid a hand on Minako, or Yuuko, or Nishigori. The same went for the other skaters. His behavior with them was perfectly normal and cordial and physically detached. Even Christophe Giacometti had to _initiate_ any sort of physical contact with him.

But Viktor was _hands-on_ , all the time, with Yuuri. Reaching, touching, caressing, stroking, hugging, nuzzling… In fact, Viktor tried to cuddle Yuuri nearly as much as Viktor tried to cuddle Makkachin.

What was Yuuri supposed to _do_ with that? _Enjoy_ it?

And admittedly, he _did_...but not without spiraling into dizzying confusion and fear with every instance. Because there was no way… _no way_ that this was happening to him. That Viktor, the person that meant _everything_ to him, felt something for…

_No._ Impossible. It was _impossible_.

Until it wasn’t.

Viktor is kissing him tirelessly, has scarcely _stopped_ kissing him since the wedding. His cheeks are flushed pink when Yuuri finally pulls away, struggling for breath. His air-deprived mind vaguely registers that a blush, in Viktor’s case, is an extraordinarily rare phenomenon, and he tries to memorize its appearance.

But then Viktor is diving in again, which is more than he can handle at the moment. Yuuri is forced to turn his head to the side. With the shift in position, Viktor’s lips instead meet his cheek, which was obviously not the intended target. Viktor makes a disgruntled noise at the rejection.

“Vitenka, hold on,” he begs. “I can hardly breathe--”

“Sorry, sorry!” Viktor apologizes fervently, straightening up, eyes glimmering with something akin to embarrassment. “It’s just…”

“Just what?” Yuuri inquires, eyebrows raised in response to the partial explanation.

“Well, it’s just that we’re _married_ now!” Viktor blurts, fingering at his own ring, twisting it so that it captures and reflects the harsh airport fluorescents. “I mean, can you believe it? We’re _married!”_

God… Yuuri can’t even begin to explain just how much he _can’t_ believe it.

“Yes, I know that we’re married,” Yuuri states, sounding convincingly assured, even though he is struggling with the truth as much as Viktor evidently is. “And apparently, you’re _already_ trying to suffocate me. You know… that’s probably some sort of record. A death so soon in a marriage like this.”

“Suffocation by kisses?” Viktor exclaims brightly, grabbing at Yuuri’s hands. “If anything, that sounds like a lovely way to go!”

“Tragic, actually, considering that I won’t even make it to our honeymoon.”

A look of determination crosses Viktor’s features suddenly, hardening his shining blue eyes. “I change my mind,” he then declares. “That’s not lovely at all. You and I are _going_ on our honeymoon, so help me God--”

Viktor sits upright and reaches for his nearby suitcase, placing it in front of him like he is a gun-toting soldier, preparing to storm an enemy. Like somehow, that behavior might quicken their boarding process.

There’s a half-hour remaining, though, and Yuuri laughs at the premature display of eagerness.

“Okay, okay. But seriously. Marriage hasn’t made me any more attractive. So is there are an actual reason why your lips have been inseparable from my face lately, or…?”

“Oh,” Viktor says almost sheepishly, softening his stiff posture. “Sorry, again. It’s just that  I have to keep reminding myself.”

Yuuri furrows his brow and widens his smile in amusement. “I still don’t understand. Reminding yourself of what, Viktor?”

Viktor exhales. His smirk becomes wistful, almost. “That this is _real_ , Yuuri. That today actually happened. It feels _surreal_ \-- how happy I am -- and kissing you reminds me that it’s real. How you make me feel…” He laughs. “I couldn’t even make that up in a dream.”

There’s a lump in Yuuri’s throat now. Because that… that feeling of _surreality_ is something that Yuuri experiences with every touch, every glance, every word he exchanges with Viktor. He knows what they both look like, sitting beside each other in the airport terminal like this. There’s a man beside Yuuri who is beautiful enough to make entire _crowds_ swoon, graceful enough to tame and master something as hard and inflexible as ice with his charms. And then there’s Yuuri, who is plain. So plain. Who, exactly, is living in a dreamworld here? Not Viktor, certainly.

He doubts that Viktor has spent nights with the words _“Why me?”_ ringing in his head, endlessly ringing, like crashing cymbals, keeping him awake. Yuuri should have done _something_ to earn Viktor, something incredible, but there’s no rhyme or reason to this. Off the ice, everything with Viktor is easy, so easy, _too_ easy. This Viktor is no poster. He is real and breathing and _inexplicably_ in love with Yuuri.

He doesn’t mention that he feels this way to Viktor. Viktor would be hurt, would assure Yuuri of his beauty and perfection, like Viktor so frequently does, only to meet Yuuri’s consistent refusal to believe him.

A few years prior, things were so different. If a time traveler from the future had appeared before him in the street, and bet their life that Viktor Nikiforov would fall for Yuuri Katsuki and later marry him… Yuuri still probably wouldn’t have believed it. _That’s_ how absurd all of this seems to him.

But here he is, sitting in an airport, preparing to depart for his honeymoon with his husband, Viktor Nikiforov. It sounds ridiculous, like an unlikely result of some major cosmic shift, and yet everyone around him continues with their lives like this is no big deal, boarding their planes, reading their magazines.

“I love you, Viktor,” Yuuri tells him suddenly, now that their conversation has tumbled into stunned silence. He grabs Viktor by the shirt, this time pulling _him_ in for a kiss. Because, really, if anyone needs assurances that this marriage is real, and not some crazy dream, it’s Yuuri.

“You know, I wouldn’t think it was possible,” Viktor mumbles against his mouth, seemingly pleased to press his lips against Yuuri’s once more, “but I think marriage _has_ somehow made you more attractive, Yuuri. For the record.”

“ _Mmph_ ,” is Yuuri’s response, not really registering a word.

* * *

From what Yuuri has been told, Viktor used to be somewhat selfish.

People have even claimed that to him outright, casually, to his face. Like that’s something _normal_ to say about a person who, in every situation, has been nothing but kind and patient with Yuuri. (Excluding those early comments about his weight, of course, but Viktor has apologized profusely for those by now).

People have also _subtly_ indicated that fact, describing anecdotes in which Viktor refused to listen to _anyone_ , refused to look after himself despite how it might worry the people who cared for him regardless. Stories in which Viktor only arrived at practices when it suited him, or acted recklessly while traveling abroad. So many stories… stories in which Viktor treated his boyfriends and girlfriends like passing trends, easily abandoned and forgotten. Stories in which Viktor would send half-assed break-up text messages before carelessly departing on a plane.

Yakov once told him that Viktor had threatened to quit skating a _million_ times, instead favoring ridiculous fancies like modeling, or acting, or even _painting_ \-- none of which he could do particularly well. Nonetheless, those threats would nearly give Yakov a coronary… at least until Viktor returned to skating a few days later, like he so inevitably and always did, his recent infatuation completely discarded.

Yuuri heard rumors of _so many_ of Viktor’s past sexual encounters, all of them culminating in cold estrangement between Viktor and his partners.

Georgi once informed him that, for few years, Viktor had even preferred to be trained separately, presumably so that he would have less competition with his rinkmates. And years ago, when Georgi had asked for help with a particular jump, Viktor had laughed and immediately rejected the request.

None of these behaviors reminded Yuuri of the Viktor he had learned to know. The Viktor who always woke bright and early for their practices, who was willing to spend hours perfecting Yuuri’s jumps with him, who could hardly stand _centimeters_ of separation between their bodies at any given moment.

In the earliest stages, he considered it some sort of warning -- a looming danger, reminding Yuuri to keep his attachment to Viktor as weak as possible, in case it was suddenly severed. He viewed Viktor as something ephemeral, a passing blessing, a temporary miracle. Like an ice sculpture. Something that can be admired but never kept. His kindness? It must be fleeting. His affection toward Yuuri? Even more so.

But ultimately, Viktor didn’t want to leave. Not even when Yuuri asked him to do so, in a selfless attempt to return Viktor’s beautiful ice skating to the world. Viktor _cried_ … was _heartbroken…_ was _furious_ . At first, Yuuri simply wondered if he was angered by the fact that Yuuri had made the first move -- that he had terminated their relationship before Viktor got the chance to do so. But then he realized that Viktor was _heartbroken_ by the fact that he had terminated their relationship at all.

After the Grand Prix final -- the one that disappointed Yuuri with a silver medal -- Viktor _begged_ Yuuri to move with him to St. Petersburg, so that they could train together. “ _You’ll love it there, I promise,”_ Viktor swore, grasping firmly at both of Yuuri’s hands, rubbing his fingers against their engagement rings. Even his gaze on Yuuri was steady, _so stead_ y throughout the entire conversation, like unwavering spotlights of blue… like he had never been so certain of something in his whole life.

Yuuri reeled like a fish stuck on a hook, nearly trembling. It seemed like Viktor was reeling him in, always… unstoppably, undeniably. Yuuri was hooked by a circle of gold and a heart-shaped smile… by argent hair and sapphire eyes.

But permanence was never something he anticipated. He wasn’t deluded enough to even _wish_ for something like that. That was a dream far too big, bigger than anything he could have ever even imagined. Bigger than the farthest reaches of reality, wherever it may end, if it even ends at all.

He expected to be thrown back, eventually.

But he was wearing that ring. And he was packing up moving boxes. And eventually, he was walking into the Russian rink, where Mila looked at him with a mixture of surprise and relief in her eyes. _“You don’t understand,”_ she said, the words whispered between moments of training. _“I think you’re the first thing that he’s ever been determined to keep.”_

He thinks about those words a lot. In quiet moments, when Viktor is curled around him on the couch. In his dreams, where everything else is hazy and nonsensical.

He even finds those words ringing in his mind as he wakes, the back of his head consumed with staggering pain, brain fogged over by drowsiness. His eyelids flutter. His limbs are sore and unable to move. There’s beeping somewhere off to his side, insistent and grating.

_Where...?_

A sound escapes his mouth, low and pained and incoherent, as he just manages to force his eyes open. They feel like they’re sealed shut… crusted closed with layers of concrete…

A blurry, mutating world slowly focuses and stabilizes before him. Yuuri lies in a long white bed, his body concealed by thin, scratchy sheets. The fluorescent lights above him are harsh in their brightness, and the machines attached to his arm glow menacingly as they continue to beep at him indignantly.

A hospital.

_Why…?_

“Yuuri?” someone murmurs hopefully, their voice thick. Yuuri struggles to turn his head toward the source… damn, it’s so much like he’s moving through gelatin…

Finally, his eyes find Viktor sitting beside him, leaning forward in a chair pushed against his bed. The sight of him fills Yuuri with inexplicable comfort, warming his blood. He loves Viktor. Loves the way that both of his hands are enveloping one of Yuuri’s, squeezing it so tightly that the extremity has long fallen asleep, tingling with pins and needles.

There are bags under Viktor’s eyes. A pair of moons in a waxing gibbous phase, bright but partially hooded, eclipsed by exhaustion. His silver hair is so unkempt… and even his clothes are disastrously wrinkled, more wrinkled than he has ever seen them. It’s startlingly contrastive to the put-together way he always appears.

It’s odd. The way that Viktor’s gaze is virtually  _desperate_ in its fear, boring into Yuuri’s face like a drill.

“Viktor?” he questions hoarsely. “What’s wrong?”

Viktor smiles with the brightness of a thousand-watt bulb, heart shape and all. And God… Yuuri loves that smile, loves how easily he can summon it. It seems to beautify Viktor even more, if such a thing were possible.

What he certainly does not love, however, are the tears that suddenly spring to Viktor’s eyes. And the next thing Yuuri knows, Viktor is leaning against Yuuri’s hand, kissing the knuckles, mumbling things in Russian that are nearly incoherent. _Nearly._

_“Spasibo_ , _spasibo_ ,” he hears repeatedly, the words practically sobbed as Viktor’s body shakes uncontrollably. _“Spasibo bol'shoye”_

_Thank you_ , he sobbed. That’s what he said. _Thank you so much._

Yuuri is not sure who Viktor is even addressing, or thanking.

“Vitenka, why are you crying?” Yuuri asks with concern, managing to raise his other hand so that it can cup Viktor’s tear stained cheek. The I.V. in his arm pulls at him, pinching slightly, but he ignores that. After all, before this… he could count the instances where Viktor has cried on two fingers, now made three.

“What happened?”

Viktor leans into Yuuri’s other hand, kisses the palm, presses his cheek against it and closes his eyes with a sigh. “A jump went bad...you fell...” he explains tremulously, trying to swallow his own sobs so that he can speak clearly. “You hit your head really hard, knocked yourself out. There was blood. The doctor told me that you would probably wake up, that you’d probably be fine, but sometimes they’re _wrong_ when it comes to head injuries, and I didn’t know what to do or think--”

“Viktor, I’m fine,” Yuuri assures him.

“I know,” Viktor exhales heavily. “I know, I know, I _know_. But you scared me. Scared me so much, it was like my heart stopped--”

“You shouldn’t have worried like that,” Yuuri mutters, feeling distinctly hypocritical, but also protective.

Viktor smirks slightly, catching his fallacy. They know each other too well. “Right,” he replies sardonically. “Because that’s normally your job, isn’t it?”

“Yes. It is. You’re supposed to be the carefree one.”

“Well…” Viktor begins, voice pleading. “You’re the one thing that I can’t afford to be carefree about. I love you too damn much for that. So please… don’t ever do something like that to me again.”

Yuuri hesitates, stunned by his desperation.

“ _Please_.”

His nod, however slow, is comforting, and he doesn’t even bother to argue about how he hadn’t _tried_ to fall in the first place. He never _tries_ to fall where Viktor is concerned.

But he does anyway. Falls too easily, just as easily as he conjures Viktor’s smiles.

* * *

Once upon a time, a beautiful Japanese figure skater named Yuuri Katsuki met his idol -- five-time figure skating World Champion, Viktor Nikiforov -- after the Sochi Grand Prix final.

Much to his shame, Yuuri’s performance in the competition failed miserably, and he simply could not bring himself to fully face or speak with his idol. Instead, he retreated into a numb, alcohol-induced haze that he couldn’t remember come morning.

Later, to his own ignorance, he learned that he had danced the Grand Prix banquet away. The champagne in his veins had crushed his qualms, and as a result, Yuuri reached an unprecedented level of wildness on the dancefloor, confidently dragging his competitors into ridiculous, even _risque_ challenges.

He had even found the nerve to shamelessly dance with his idol, and somehow, convinced Viktor to be his ice skating coach. In fact… some people even claimed that Yuuri stole Viktor’s heart -- right then and there, at that banquet, with his wonderful dancing and blatant affection.

Unfortunately, Yuuri recalled none of this the next day. So he left, his aspirations crushed.

But his idol, Viktor Nikiforov, was not prepared to let him go. Abandoning his own career, Viktor traveled to Yuuri’s home and fulfilled his promise. He wanted to coach this Yuuri Katsuki, wanted to pave Yuuri’s way to a Grand Prix Medal. And so he did.

Along the way, standing beside one another on the ice… the Japanese skater and his idol-turned-coach fell in love. They provided new meaning to each other’s lives -- the kind that they soon found that they could not live without. So, on the night before the Grand Prix Final, they exchanged gold rings at the front of a grand church, promising marriage to one another when Yuuri achieved his dream of a gold medal.

Sadly, the Japanese skater did not win that Grand Prix final -- but their love did not waver! They instead moved to Viktor’s home country, and there they lived for many years, in love. Together.

There came a day, later on, when Yuuri finally won that gold medal. And soon after, Viktor and Yuuri were married, and have been happily so ever since.

It sounds like a fairytale whenever Viktor recounts the story like that, whether to strangers or to friends or to family who has heard it a thousand times. Yuuri likes to watch him tell it, with that heart-shaped smile splayed across his beautiful face. Likes to smirk to himself and listen to how far they have come together, Viktor and him.

Of course, Viktor’s retellings are not always entirely accurate. He is wrong about Yuuri’s dream. The gold medal doesn’t mean much to him, and has never meant all that much to him.

He is mature enough now to understand his own dreams, and what they represent.

From the start, Yuuri dreamed of being with the man he loves. Being with him on the ice, in their home, in their bed, the list goes on and on. And  -- unlikely or not -- that was the dream that fell directly into Yuuri’s hands, like a gift from the stars. Effortlessly won.

It will never cease to amaze him, and never manage to disappoint him.

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly had no plan while writing this. It just sort of sprung into being, so if it's not to your liking, I apologize. I just felt like I had neglected Yuuri's narrative in this series, and I wanted to correct that, considering that (as typical as it is) he is one of my favorite characters. I too suffer from anxiety, so I did my best to incorporate that into the work.  
> On the other hand, if it was to your liking, please, please, PLEASE leave a comment! Literally, your comments feed my muse like nothing else...  
> [Here's my tumblr.](https://clark-jkent.tumblr.com/) Feel free to talk to me there!  
> Also, this will probably be the last work in this series, considering that my semester is starting soon... Thus, I would like to thank you all for the reads, kudos, bookmarks, and sweet comments that you have blessed me with. Your reactions make writing worth it every day. Tell me how I did, and what I can improve upon! :)


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